


Scatter Like Ice from the Spoon

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: Post the season 6 finale. Prompt:eyeliner and cigarettes.It might have gone like this...





	Scatter Like Ice from the Spoon

It might have gone like this.

A bullet between a different set of eyes. An elevator ride and a hole in her chest instead of his. Impromptu surgery and hands threaded through hair that is short but not short enough. Tears drip, drip, drip from a chin to cheeks that are stubble free and soft.

And in the aftermath everything they thought they knew about themselves will invert. Black to white and up to all the way down.

Their first kiss will be to silence blood numbing screams but they'll be swapping stale cigarette smoke not three months later. Clashing teeth and nipping tongues.

Shaking hands that will slide between damp thighs as they'll desperately forget to remember for just a few more minutes.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

No-one will notice.

There'll be no-one left to notice. The difference will be telling. Tangible.

Eyeliner will bleed, tired eyes rubbed to red raw. Moments snatched between hours. Black space and white light that will flicker in and out with a tick... tick... tick.

They'll brush the backs of hands as they pass in stairwells. Scar tissue will heal and shy smiles will fade to desperate self loathing that can only be cured in the heady hours between midnight and four am. Crowded bars and scotch on the rocks.

Orgasms against white washed walls.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Months will pass.

More months than they'll be able to count. The sun will still rise in the east. They'll have no idea where it sets. Or if it ever does.

The crowds will thin. They'll eat lunch by gravesides, run fingertips over rough stone and shout wild rage into the chill. It will rain on them and they won't care because cold and numb is better than just numb.

Memories will twist. Truth and lies and everything else in between. Sheets will tangle around torsos. Legs twined and back to back as they pretend to sleep.

Pretend even more that nothing has changed.

Everything will have changed.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Fingers will catch on lips; strum. Stolen minutes in on-call rooms that might leave scrubs askew and eyebrows raised if the right person were to walk past at the wrong time.

Invariably, they won't.

Cherry gloss will smear across cheeks that are still too smooth. Fingers will tangle in short hair that is still too long. Moans will muffle into pillow cases, secrets kept safe amid feather and down.

And if it goes on that way for long enough, everything wrong with it will slowly turn to right and that line in the sand where it all fades to changed will bleed and blur and disappear altogether.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It might have gone like that.

A bullet between a different set of eyes. An elevator ride and a hole in her chest instead of his.  



End file.
